


Brandeisen

by tcheschire



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:04:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tcheschire/pseuds/tcheschire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tragic princess ruminates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brandeisen

There is a certain helplessness in knowing things as they are. Perhaps it is the harrangued feeling of differring opinions, as if believing differently will change what is – perhaps it is the perception that things, being ever-changing, simply cannot be known.

Perception is, of course, fault. Things are as they are – there can be change, things big and small in relative _perception_ , but the sheer vastness of all that contains the change rather renders it all moot, don’t you find?

My brother, for example. I love my brother. He is a great man, a one-of-a-kind in a more meaningful way than the rest of us are one-of-a-kind. He radiates a light of all lights, of gentleness, of valor, of all things great men are made of and more. All love him, for they cannot help but, and he loves all in return, for what little we deserve such.

And yet he will die. Obviously. But more than that, he was meant to. If ever such a thing as a storyline were set into motion, then things simply would not be right if he did not. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, in the way he takes his steps. And I can see in his eyes that he knows it, too. He knows, and he resigns.

I remember asking once (twice, a million times in my head) why he does not fight. Did not need to specify, for he knew.

I will never forget his answer – it colors my judgement, even now; he smiled, a sad beautiful smile that spoke many more volumes than the words that accompanied: _To what end_?

Such clarity in this answer that I could not even brood. Of course he is right. Of course he is. Any of my other brothers, I would not need even have asked, for they would wrestle their fates tooth and nail to and end so glorious and steeped in rebellion it would not even be clear under the most direct scrutiny that their great enemy had come to pass in the end anyway.

Sometimes, though, in my less brutally dark moments, I wonder if his answer, his acquiesence, had not made me more pliant to my own fate. I hesitate, however, to believe such an experience falls under the jurisdiction of fate – had I fought, could I have avoided the now ever-pervading sense of violation?

 _To what end_ …?

I do try not to dwell. Not to feel so overbearingly know-it-all. I do not say “I told you so”, no matter how loudly and insistently I think it.

I do not think anyone would listen, in any case, and smugness was never quite my color.

But I quite like to dream, to remember how it was, to think of what could have been. My dearest brother, my beacon of goodness, the needlepoint of our collective moral compass...I do miss him.

My other brothers as well, with their flights of fancy, their vainglorious and selfish, adamant adherence to _their_ desires, the fulfillment of _their_ wishes. Would that I could have their conviction, that bullheaded insistence that good is right and all will be well and good.

Would that I had that reckless abandon.

Scarcely do I even believe that I could even feel such passion. None such feelings spring to mind, and that itself is telling; how brightly must that passion have burned for my memory to neglect it so?

I suppose I always found my quiet solace in piety. There is something soothing in supplicatin oneself, in lying, prostrate, before a power one trusts. It is satisfying.

Was. It was. There was once a day, not so very long ago (I must remind myself it was not very long ago, as I feel so very old...) when I could commit myself to my god, and feel that I was loved in return.

But things do change. I see that they do, I see that they will, and then it comes to pass. It no longer satisfies me, and I endure, I shoulder, I carry.

I will carry it with me forever, I fear, this heaviness in my chest. And I will forever restrain the self-righteous fury when I am ignored. Just like I was then.

And there it is again, isn’t it? That taint. The feel of eyes, then hands, the stain, reek of sweat. That corruptive _fullness_ that will never quite dissipate...

“Cassandra. You’ve got to stop.”

I laugh.

How can I stop, when it has yet to begin?


End file.
